


sayang, won't you build this home with me?

by iwaoiks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, iwaoi b&b au, winter aesthetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25425967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwaoiks/pseuds/iwaoiks
Summary: It’s comforting, the solid thing of him. His furnace-hands are occupied, but still Hajime is warm, and warm, and warm, and Tooru could stay in this moment forever, he thinks, if not longer.sayang: term of endearment; meaning love.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 30
Kudos: 145
Collections: Iwaoi fluff week 2020





	sayang, won't you build this home with me?

**Author's Note:**

> happy iwaoi fluff week!! this is under the prompt 'hands' for the 4th day (sort of) <3
> 
> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8AWFf7EAc4) is the song that plays in the fic!

“ _Iwa-chaaaaan_ ,” Tooru whines in the most annoying voice he can manage, stretching out the _chan_ for as long as his breath allows. He slides his feet across the hardwood floors to enter the kitchen, where Hajime is standing by the sink, back to him. With a great, dramatic sigh Tooru slumps heavily over Hajime’s frame, arms snaking around his torso so he can huff right into his ear, “I’m cold.”

This year’s winter feels unforgiving to Tooru, who doesn’t have fire-forged hands like Hajime does. Hajime doesn’t budge, only giving a low, indulgent hum. He’s busy finishing up the rest of the dishes, hands scrubbing, rinsing, repeating, and refuses to spare Tooru any more of his attention. Tooru lines his feet so the tips of his toes tap against Hajime’s heels, and petulantly burrows his face in the crook of Hajime’s neck. He smells like firewood, that scent they can never quite scrub off in the winter cold, and laundry detergent. Tooru sighs against his skin, less dramatic but equally great, and he can almost hear Hajime’s exasperated smile. Hajime’s fond smile. “Just give me a minute,” Hajime says then, tilting his head to rest lightly on Tooru’s tufts of hair. His hands carry on with their task.

Like this, Tooru can feel Hajime’s warmth through their layers of clothes, can almost taste the steady thrum of his heartbeat when Tooru’s lips graze against Hajime’s skin. It’s comforting, the solid thing of him. Outside, snow falls. Inside, water flows. His furnace-hands are occupied, but still Hajime is warm, and warm, and warm, and Tooru could stay in this moment forever, he thinks, if not longer.

But Tooru’s hands are still freezing. He kisses a grin into Hajime’s neck, then, all upturned mischief, and plunges them beneath the hem of Hajime’s sweater before pressing his fingers flat against his stomach. Hajime yelps, curses and jumps at the sudden bite of cold, and then he’s elbowing Tooru away from him and threatening to stab him with a knife, and Tooru laughs and laughs and laughs as he runs out of the kitchen to the safety of the living room.

There’s an old record player by the fireplace, one Hajime had found in a thrift shop and fell in love with at first sight (Tooru jokes that he fell in love with the record player faster than he fell for Tooru, and Hajime’s lack of objection still leaves Tooru with an offended hand on his chest). It was the first thing they’d placed inside the bed and breakfast when they had first moved in; it was the first touch of home. Now, music floats and settles in the walls of Aoba Johsai B&B, at all times if Hajime can manage it, jazz and R&B and songs in different languages that Tooru doesn’t know the words to. Their guests say it makes them feel like they’ve stepped into a movie. Tooru just likes the way the notes often soften Hajime.

It’s been three years since then. Several fights about interior design and breakfast menus later, Tooru finds himself in the comfort of their small bed and breakfast in Hokkaido, under blankets of wool and snow. Tooru finds himself a home, for him and Hajime, who fends off the cold for him always.

As if on cue, Hajime enters the living room with firewood cradled in his arms, shooting a glare Tooru’s way for earlier. Tooru muffles a smile behind the woollen blanket he’s wrapped around himself, and watches as Hajime crouches in front of the fireplace, getting to work.

Under Hajime’s touch, fire comes to life. Orange light spills from the fireplace, coats its glow over Hajime’s golden skin. Warmth traipses across the room and finds its corners to settle into, and Tooru curls up on the couch, exhaling slowly, slowly. He could’ve done it himself, really, is completely capable of it; but Hajime is different. Hajime’s warmth is different, those inferno hands of his, a heat that seeps and settles. Under Hajime’s touch, the whole house comes to life. He adds more wood to the lick of flames to keep the fire strong.

The song that plays dies out and changes. A soft guitar begins to play, and Jeff Buckley’s vocals pirouette in the warming air, dancing with the burning flames. _I heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don’t really care for music, do you?_ It’s one of the few songs from Hajime’s collection that Tooru recognizes, an old favourite of them both.

Tooru could fall asleep like this, he thinks, with Hajime’s warmth and Hajime’s song and Hokkaido’s brilliant, brilliant snow. His eyes droop closed, heavy with slumber.

“Dance with me,” Hajime says then, out of nowhere, and when Tooru opens his eyes in surprise, he sees Hajime’s hand extended towards him. Hajime stands before him, face softened with a smile and the gentle cry of the American singer, backlit by the fire that burns for him. Frontlit by the fire that burns in Tooru, for him too.

Tooru stares at him for a moment, and then he laughs and laughs, and takes Hajime’s hand. “So cliché, Iwa-chan,” he huffs teasingly, and Hajime rolls his eyes, taking him by hand and waist. It’s solid, the comforting thing of him. Tooru is warm where Hajime’s hands touch him, coming to life. They start to sway slowly to the tune, _her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya_ , and Tooru’s eyes flutter shut again, his head leaning onto Hajime’s shoulder. He could fall like this, too.

Hajime steps on his foot then. Tooru yelps and pulls away slightly, and Hajime flashes him a shit-eating grin. “Oops,” he says, not the slightest bit apologetic. All Tooru can do is glare angrily up at him as he laughs and laughs and laughs, the sound dancing with the notes of the song. Makes it better, somehow.

Tooru doesn’t manage to even pout before Hajime is twirling him around to placate him, and then Hajime pulls Tooru close to his chest and he knows there’s no longer a point in arguing. Not that it matters, like this. Not that it’s ever really mattered at all, with Hajime’s warmth and Hajime’s song.

Hajime takes a half-step closer, both hands on his waist now. Tooru feels himself burn beneath the touch, pressed so close like this, but he couldn’t bear it any other way. The record player spins and spins. _Hallelujah_ , Jeff Buckley sings. Outside, snow falls. Inside, Tooru comes to life. Hajime is warm, and warm, and warm, and Tooru could stay like this forever, for even longer.

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to [kam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaashikeiji/pseuds/kaashikeiji) for reading this over for me! i hope you all have a lovely week :D
> 
> my twitter is @[iwaoiks](https://twitter.com/iwaoiks)!


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